Noldolante
by Nyeren
Summary: Oneshots: An attempt to capture the regrets and contemplations of various Noldili. III: Edrahil
1. I: Maglor

**Noldolante**

It is over.

Truly, that is all there is to say. It is over, now. And I do not know if I am glad.

Once, centuries ago, Amme laughed and ruffled my hair. I had just played her harp for the first time, and I was entranced. "Macalaure," she laughed. "Macalaure, someday you will be the greatest minstrel in Aman."

"Really?" I asked softly, still in a daze from the music I had found in the strings, at my fingertips.

"Yes," she said. "And then, Macalaure, I will watch you play before the Valar."

I wish I could have done that, for her.

And so it went on.

I learned, as did my brothers, though none of them were fascinated and bewildered by music as I was. Metalworking and other crafts was their love. I would use the harp-strings and instruments they made, pulling notes and melodies out into the air. Amme would listen, often, but I do not know if Ata ever really tried to hear it. I don't know why we loved him as we did. He was never there for us. And yet we stayed.

He was fell; we all knew that. His fire was too hot to be near to, to feel comfortable with the protection of a father. He loved Amme, but some things will never last, not for eternity. And our family was one of those things.

It began simply enough. He had always held a grudge against his brothers...and them came the Silmarilli, and Melkor, and so many other small things, tensions and misgivings and squabbles, evenings passed in silence because of the air between them and none of us daring to speak.

Even the youngest of us were full-grown when it happened, of course, but I wonder, now, how we ever felt we were our own. Because we followed him. And we barely even thought to question.

Because so many things were wrong. At the distance of centuries, I can see that. I can see with eyes unclouded, because I have been stripped of all the things I thought were right and true and noble; I have seen my people and my brothers and my kin and enemies falling. I can see so clearly now.

It is all over. Done. The past cannot be changed; I can only think of it, and dredge up grief in my weary, broken, numbed heart.

Then came the darkness. I think I first began to realize when he would not even try to make the sacrifice, but I could not see clearly. Not then.

And so we revolted.

And so we left, in the night, left Amme and all the others. Left and tried out hardest not to look back, but that was in vain. We had our chances to return, and the wisest ones knew what lay behind them, in the shadows, and knew that it was for the best. Namo's warning. And Alqualonde.

Alqualonde…

The sea was rough during that passage. And tears fell into the ocean, perhaps the beginning of the Nirnaeth. Because even before we reached the shores, the tears shed could not be counted.

Alqualonde.

The fires burned, the moon rose, the stars were obscured, the sun blazed in the sky. And then his flame was gone.

It was so sudden. The one who had driven us, whom we had followed, whom we had loved, who led us into exile. He was gone, and only ashes remained. And perhaps he returned from exile. Perhaps.

I made a song, you know. Telling the tale of the fall of the Noldor. But what tale or song or dream can really tell of it?

And so, life went on. Alliances, battles, and unnumbered tears. So many times. The Nirnaeth.

They were always hot-tempered, those three. We lost friends because of them, but still, they were our brothers...even when their deeds cried out in shame. Even then. And there was the Oath.

Of all, that is the farthest from my understanding now. Why, _why_, by the Sea and stars and heavens, why did we call upon Eru and the everlasting darkness? Because some things are too high to swear upon, for us fallible children...we did not know of what we spoke. None of us. And even now we have only seen the edge of that night. No oath should condemn a soul to that. None.

But perhaps I have always been a fool.

And so the oath drove us on. And so we parleyed and battled and apologized; and so we fought and killed and wept. And so my brothers fell, sometimes alone and sometimes together, and I could not even rage against those who killed them.

The Kinslayings run together. And then the wrath of the Valar.

"We have to, Makalaure," he said. "We called upon the darkness..." And he found the pain too great and the darkness what he wanted, in the end. Or perhaps merely oblivion, but how to reach that I do now know.

The tide is high, now, as I stand at the shore, looking out in the night to where Beleriand has fallen. I wonder if the power of such creations, this light that I still hold, was ever meant for the Elda, for I do not believe they can ever bring good.

This is what I spent my life for. This is why I left my home, betrayed my friends, why I spent these years in war and sorrow.

All-Father, if you hear me, tell me why.

I lift my hand, and it shines in a brilliant arc before it hits the water.

This is the end, and so perhaps, one day, there will be a beginning. One day...Though it may be that none of this will come.

It may be that beyond the setting of the sun the night is everlasting.

And now the last lingering glimmer in the water is gone.

_A/N: I do not own Maglor, or Middle Earth. This sort of story has most likely been written before; if so, I apologize for any similarities Please review, if you have a moment.  
_


	2. II: Finarfin

_I do not own anything, except the reviews that a few persons were kind enough to leave on the first chapter, and to which there are responses at the bottom._

_Noldolante_

When all is said and done, it's a very strange feeling to look back through the histories and lore, and find them all saying that you did right.

He was my brother. That much is simple. He was my brother, strong and bright and fell and fierce. Though even from his childhood he scorned us. But we shared a father. We grew up together in the light of Aman. And deny it though we might, the kinship was always there.

But the first time I was truly afraid was in the night, when he stood before our people and spoke, spoke of battle and exile and strength and glory. For my fear and my sorrow were for all the Noldor who followed. But also for him. And I knew that he would fall far.

I had watched the course he charted. I sometimes tried to persuade him, gently show how he was sailing for ruin. I tried.

" – We and we alone shall be lords of the unsullied Light, and masters of the bliss and beauty of Arda. No other race shall oust us!"

And they swore.

He was my brother, and somehow I loved him. But he was a fool.

I spoke of histories. They name Feanaro the greatest of the Noldor, yet call his deeds rash and the work of Morgoth. Is greatness measured in how much you can destroy? Melkor was once the equal of the Lord of the Skies.

But Feanaro – he is my brother.

And so we spoke, me and Nolofinwe. First he cried out against the madness, called on our brother to think, to _see._ To see how he was breaking all the peace of Arda.

Perhaps we were all fools.

I tried to calm the waters; I tried to clear the air of its clouds of anger and folly. No one heard. Yes, they listened, but so few understood.

And Nolofinwe was supposed to be the wise one.

Even my children were divided. Some stood with Feanaro; some with Nolofinwe. Only Orodreth was with me.

Another irony of history. He is sometimes blamed for the fall of Nargothrond. Perhaps he was not great, perhaps he was not perfect, but he always did the best he could.

And so I went with them, for I could not forsake my people and my children. And so I watched as the white shores and clear waters were darkened with blood.

They said that I did right.

Namo…he warned us. And in my haze of grief and horror I heard, and I turned back. I left my family and turned back.

They said that I did right.

It was long, long before we first heard of what befell the rest of my kindred. Feanaro fell among the first, of course. My brother crushed by Morgoth, his son by a Valarauka, my sons in battle and in the dungeons of the Isle of Werewolves…

So I was right, it would seem. The Noldor fled, and brought about destruction. But oh, the tales we hear now of their noble fight, of the alliances and leaguer, of love and hate and loyalty. But they say it all began in folly.

And they say…

They say that I did right.

_Fin_

_Taken directly from Fearnor's speecha fter the dArkening of Valinor_**  
**

**Elfique: **Thank you! I'm glad that it wasn't too similar to any of the others out there.

**Lalaith: **Many thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed it. And per request, here's an addition to my very small list of fics. )

**Dawn Felagund:** Thank you muchly for the very long review! If I ever go back to edit, I shall most certainly keep your ideas in mind. As to the timeline, I wasn't particularly trying to go either way…but thank you for pointing it out.


	3. III: Edrahil

_Disclaimer: Still don't own it. Darn. The italicized line comes from _The Silmarillion_, page 170, Chapter XIX: Of Beren and Luthien.  
A/N: I adore Edrahil, despite his incredible minor-character-ness. I've been a bit behind on my Silmarillion fanfiction production lately…most remiss of me. I may, however, end up coming back to this piece to edit/elongate; I was not sure precisely what I wanted from it. Reviews are a very nice thing!_

_**Noldolante**_

I do not know what the books of lore say. I have never had the heart to look.

I had never been important. I watched, on the borders, longing to move freely once more. I did my duty, but oh – how I wished to go beyond our fences, to remember the days when the sun was bright and we Elves of Nargothrond were not afraid to walk in the light of day. When despite the shadow in the North the Eldar were not afraid.

I waited, and all the shadows grew deeper.

And then the Mortal came. He entered our lands, bold and terrified, holding aloft the ring that was his father's, and our king's. He held his passage and his hope in the palm of his hand.

Perhaps the Secondborn are not so complicated. But they are much more able to throw themselves away – away upon a dream or folly; for them, the consequences are only for a decade, or two or three, or the rest of their lives, short flickers that they are.

They do not face eternity with themselves. But we – when we stoop to madness and to wrong, we will always, always know.

And the young one, Beren son of Barahir, came and reminded our king of an oath.

And our king never did break his word.

He spoke, telling us why. Why he was leaving to die with one who was only a child, to us. And he asked for the help of his chieftains, his people.

Celegorm and Curufin. Sometimes I wondered why the king thought to give the kin of Feanor a home in his realm. I wondered, then felt abashed for silently questioning my king.

Loyal.

That is how Saereth always described me, when she would find me after I came home from the borders, knowing how I ached to go beyond. Loyal, she would say, and smile.

I miss her.

We were together in the crowd when the king and the brothers spoke. And she closed her eyes in pain when he, forsaken, cast his crown away. His word would not be broken. I did not know then, why I went forward.

Now I do.

It was because or lives are eternal, and when we leave our duty we know it forever. And loyal, she said, I have always been.

I had no idea what I was doing. I was before too many eyes, doing what I hoped and thought was right; what was fitting for one was truly great – who left his kingdom for a promise given. The crown was heavy. And I asked that it be kept till he returned. Though that day never came.

_For you remain my king, and theirs, whatever betides._

She told me she was proud; that what I had done, would do, was right after all. She blinked away her tears and smiled and said that some day, some day she would see me again.

That day has not come either.

When we were in the dungeon, beneath the Isle of Werewolves, waiting for our deaths, the king asked me why I came. Why I went beyond our borders only to die. Why I, one who looked to the greater and the wiser for reason, had come when none of them had dared.

Because he was the king. Because it was right. Because I could not do otherwise and be able to look back upon the ages of my life without shame.

And he wept, then, in the darkness, when loyalty was all that remained.


End file.
